The name "Albright" was a ghost haunting Foster's investigation. It was the name of the long-dead locksmith from the key, the one that had opened the box containing the H.A.M. journal. It was a door he couldn't open. Until now.
The missing persons case of Elara Vex remained his official priority.
The pattern on the follower's coat had led nowhere—Neil had found no matches in any database.
Foster decided to go back to the beginning, to Elara's neighborhood, and conduct another round of door-to-door inquiries. It was tedious, often fruitless police work, but it was all he had.
—
He found himself on a quiet, tree-lined street of well-kept townhouses, not far from the park where he'd first seen the woman with her two dogs. He moved from door to door, flashing his badge, asking the same questions.
Most residents had already been interviewed, offering nothing new.
He approached a particular townhouse, its window boxes bursting with colorful flowers.
As he raised his hand to knock, the door opened, and a young woman with a brilliant smile and a cascade of ginger hair nearly collided with him.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her flame-like eyes widening in surprise. Then, seeing his police uniform, her expression shifted to one of polite concern.
"Officer? Is everything alright?"
For a split second, Foster was thrown. He was in his Foster Ambrose skin, his badge visible, his posture that of a cop.
Secrecy and all, he couldn't count how many times he'd heard that. Yet, he had already found a member of his club. Fate could be funny at times.
He had to be careful, therefore, he showed no signs of recognition.
"My apologies, miss. Just routine inquiries about a missing person in the area. Elara Vex. Have you seen or heard anything unusual in the last week?"
Mia's face fell. "Oh, the chemist? It's so terrible. No, I'm afraid I haven't." She seemed genuinely distressed. Then, she called over her shoulder.
"Mrs. Albright! The police are here about that missing woman!"
The name struck Foster like a physical blow. Albright.
An elderly woman with a kind, wrinkled face and hands dusted with flour appeared behind Mia, wiping them on a checkered apron.
"The police? Again? I told the other officer, dear, I didn't see a thing. Kept to myself that whole evening."
She gave Foster a warm but weary smile.
Foster's mind was racing. Albright. The locksmith's wife. Living and working in the home of the woman who had no alias, a member of his club.
The coincidence was astronomically impossible. This was a connection, a pivot point in the hidden architecture of the city.
He kept his professional mask firmly in place.
"I understand, ma'am. We're just double-checking every lead."
He made a show of noting something in his pocketbook.
"Thank you for your time."
He nodded to both of them, his eyes meeting Mia's for a fraction of a second longer. He saw no recognition there, only the concerned innocence of a civilian talking to a policeman.
As he walked away, his heart was thundering. He didn't go to the next house. He walked around the block, his thoughts a whirlwind.
Mrs. Albright. The widow of the locksmith who made the key for the H.A.M. operative.
She was now a housekeeper for Mia West, the vibrant, seemingly naive girl who had stumbled into his club.
Was she merely a retired old woman, or was she a keeper of secrets? Was her presence in Mia's life chance, or was it a form of watchfulness? Did the ginger haired girl know?
The implications were staggering.
The mundane and the supernatural were not just overlapping, they were interwoven, family by family, house by house.
The key to the city's deepest secret might be held by a cheerful old woman who baked scones for a ginger-haired heiress.
He thought of the journal's mention of "H."—the skeptical colleague of the writer.
_Could "H" be Havelock, the clockmaker who had given me the Albright lead?_
The network was wider, deeper, and more intimate than he had ever imagined.
He had come to this street looking for a missing chemist.
He had found, instead, a lockbox with a human face.
And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that the next time The Oxford Club met, he would be looking at the ginger haired girl in an entirely new light.
The Lonely Saviour had just found a thread that connected his club directly to the heart of the mystery, and it ran through the most unsuspecting of his members.